_Mar._ Gone, the spirit's gone, what news? _Ant._ 'Tis from the Lady; From her we saw: from that same miracle, I know her name now: read but these three lines; Read with devotion, friend, the lines are holy. _Martine_ reads. _I dare not chide ye in my Letter, (Sir)_ _'Twill be too gentle: If you please to look me_ _In the West-street, and find a fair Stone window,_ _Carved with white Cupids; there I'll entertain ye:_ _Night and discretion guide ye._ _Call me_ Ismena. _Ant._ Give it me again: Come, come, fly, fly, I am all fire. _Mar._ There may be danger. _Ant._ So there is to drink When men are thirsty, to eat hastily When we are hungry: so there is in sleep, Friend, Obstructions then may rise and smother us, We may dye laughing, choak'd even at devotions: An Apoplexie, or a sodain Palsey May strike us down. _Mar._ May be a train to catch ye. _Ant._ Then I am caught: and let Love answer for it. 'Tis not my folly, but his infamy, And if he be ador'd, and dare do vild things.-- _Mar._ Well, I will go. _Ant._ She is a Lady, Sir, A Maid, I think, and where that holy spell Is flung about me, I ne're fear a villany, 'Tis almost night: away friend. _Mar._ I am ready, I think I know the house too. _Ant._ Then are we happy. [_Exeunt._ _Scæna Tertia._ _Enter_ Ismena, _and_ Aminta. _Ism._ Did you meet him? _Am._ Yes. _Ism._ And did you give my Letter? _Am._ To what end went I? _Ism._ Are ye sure it was he? Was it that Gentleman? _Am._ Do you think I was blind? I went to seek no Carrier, nor no Midwife. _Ism._ What kind of man was he? thou mayst be deceiv'd Friend. _Am._ A man with a nose on's face: I think he had eyes too, And hands: for sure he took it. _Ism._ What an answer! _Am._ What questions are these to one that's hot and troubled? Do you think me a Babe? am I not able (Cosin) At my years and discretion, to deliver A Letter handsomely? Is that such a hard thing? Why every Wafer-woman will undertake it: A Sempsters girl, or a Tailors wife will not miss it: A Puritan Hostess (Cosin) would scorn these questions. My legs are weary. _Ism._ I'll make 'em well again. _Am._ Are they at supper? _Ism._ Yes, and I am not well, Nor desire no company: look out, 'tis darkish. _Am._ I see nothing yet: assure your self, _Ismena_, If he be a man, he will not miss. _Ism._ It may be he is modest, And that may pull him back from seeing me; Or has made some wild construction of my easiness: I blush to think what I writ.